Touch Sensitive
by x Veela x
Summary: Two words: Fleur Delacour x x x


**Disclaimer: I may look like Fleur, but I do not own her or anyone else. The French is from an Internet translator - I take Spanish.**

_Touch Sensitive_

Touch was something Fleur had always been partial to. Because of her dazzling appearance, words or looks did not matter as much. She had received stares and compliments ever since her very first day of life. Consequently, Fleur did not look at Bills eye's when he proposed, nor listened to sift double meanings through his words, she focused on his hands on hers, his forehead parallel to her own, his legs either side of hers. That was how it had always been, that was how it would always be. From beginning to end.

x

As a young child, Fleur swirled around in her beautiful back garden, the spring sun reflected off the tall windows of her home. Her palace. She glided to her swing, the ropes with flowers entwined up the stem, the seat cushioned with silk. She had always been treated like a princess. Fleur let the gentle breeze help her to fly through the air, the tail of her short white dress streaming out behind her to be caught by long, delicate, pale legs. She toppled off the swing, her thoughts on the presents her father would bring home for her, and fell to her knees, the pearly complexion parting for droplets of vermilion to trickle down her legs. She squealed and whimpered as her elegant fingers covered the wounds, coming away with brown and red at the tips. The orphan boy of about twelve who looked after her pony shouted, "Je viens!" and again, "Je viens!" His footsteps stopped in front of her as he knelt down beside her. "Allez-vous très bien?" She looked down at her knees and uncovered them, the blood sticking to her hands, "Non, la coupure, il blesse. Et le sang, je ne l'aime pas à tout!" The boy was English, yet it was not his attempt to talk so she wouldn't have to translate that made the pain recede. The look on his stricken face did not comfort her either. She remembered him gathering her sweeping curtain of golden hair to one side, out of her face and clasped her hand all the way to her mother, regardless of the soil and blood. This memory had stayed with her throughout her life in the front of her mind; ready to pick her up when she fell over.

x

As a teenager, Fleur sauntered across the sweltering beach, whistles and stares following her. This was nothing new. A boy caught her eye; he originally had his back to her, but turned to see what his friends were whistling at. He glanced at her once and turned away. Instead of this hurting Fleur, her heart raced and she beamed in his direction thankful for his actions. She swept across the beach and stopped before him. She took in his silvery blonde hair and oceanic eyes and swooped down and kissed him twice on each cheek; the boy looked up at her. "Merci." Was all she said to him; he knew touch was more important than appearances. It was all she needed to say.

x

As a young woman, Fleur bounced through the door, a multitude of gold and red leaves fluttering in with her. She looked at the curly lettered "NO FRENCH" sign on the archway into one of the luxurious sitting rooms and smiled; Gabrielle was learning English. After escaping her sister's embrace, she held out her left hand to her mother with her beautiful engagement ring adorning her finger.

"Bill and I are going to be married!" Her mother's face froze.

"But Fleur, what about all ze 'andsome _French_ boyz zat are zo enamoured wiz you? Bill is _Eenglish_ and you will be living away from 'ome. Are you sure zat iz what you want?" Fleur's father walked in and looked his wife up and down and nodded curtly, tapping his watch. They were going out to yet another social evening. Fleur set her eyes on the floor and murmured,

"Bill duz not zink zat I am juzt a pretty face." Her mother looked at the reflection of her and her daughter in a mirror on the wall.

"Why don't you spent zum time wiz Bill and 'iz family? It will 'elp your Eenglish." Fleur beamed and embraced her mother again.

"Papa! Papa!" She called her father back into the room; "I am going to be married!" Her father looked at his eldest daughter and forced himself to smile, though Fleur could tell it was an absent smile.

"'ow nice for you. Let me know 'ow much ze wedding will be." He turned and walked out, without even asking who would be taking his daughter away from him, but it was her mother's arms that stopped Fleur's tears from falling.

x

Now expecting her first child, Fleur pulled Bill's hoodie down over her baby bump as she watched the winter snow fall past the window. He put his hands on her waist and led her backwards until she was sitting on his lap on the sofa.

"Bill, will you always love me? No matter 'ow old or ugly I get?"

He moved his hand under the material over her bump, "Always, though we both know you could never be ugly."

As his hand travelled over the tiny hill, they felt a small kick.

Yes, their baby was going to be touch sensitive.

**Reviews would be appreciated xXx**


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